


I wish I knew how to break the spell

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Baby it's cold outside: a debate, Christmas, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Sappy, conversations about consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:04:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2789333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras’ own fingers are in Grantaire’s wild curls, holding his head to a dangerous distance from his face, and it’s a thrill because really, when has breathing been necessary? “The fact that she might indeed want him,” Enjolras hisses, and his breath brushes warm against Grantaire’s cheeks, “doesn’t make him less creepy. No means no, and people need to grasp a concept simple as that. Implied, non-enthusiastic consent, is no consent.”</p><p><em>No. I’m saying no. I'm </em>thinking<em> no. I’m implying my absence of consent. Don’t touch me, I really don’t want you to touch me.</em></p><p>
  <em>Oh sweet, merciless hell, never stop touching me.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wish I knew how to break the spell

**Author's Note:**

> This scene between Enjolras and Grantaire depicts the internal conversation I keep having with myself because for my fave is problematic and that’s hard and I’m pathetically confused. It’s a stupid little thing but right now I care for nothing else but for MOLOTOV JUKEBOX, NATALIA TENA’S BAND WHO ARE IN ATHENS FOR ONLY ONE NIGHT, TONIGHT AND I CAN’T CALM DOWN because this has been a lifetime dream oh God…
> 
> Anyway, if I’ve got anything wrong, or if it seems to you problematic or offensive, please let me know. 
> 
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

“For God’s sake, she says that she _really_ can’t say!” Enjolras huffs in exasperation, folding and unfolding his fingers, his cherry lips pursued tightly together, a frown shadowing his beautiful, rosy face. Grantaire doesn’t know who convinced him to wear a dress shirt and those tights pants, but whoever did, he both curses and worships them. He gets up and (unconsciously) stands by the Christmas tree. It’s ridiculous. All flushed and glimmering and _red_. Grantaire mentally compares his shiny curly hair to Christmas lights. Gross. Ew. 

“But _baby_ ,” Grantaire slurs sarcastically, “it’s cold outside.”

“I can’t believe you like that song! I mean, I can  _see_ how you like that song, but I can’t believe that Courfeyrac likes it too!”

“So you’re implying that it’s expected of me to like a song that you consider rapey and abusive, but it surprises you when Courfeyrac does too. I’m glad I give the world that impression,” Grantaire hums, trying to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

“I’m not implying  _that_ , you know I’m not!” Enjolras protests, walking emphatically around the couch to take his red pea coat. “It’s just… He holds her hands without asking first!”

“You know how  _I_ hold hands, Apollo,” Grantaire smiles faintly.

Enjolras’ cheeks flush an even brighter shade of red and he lowers his eyes, murmuring through gritted teeth. “You’d ask for permission even for that.”

“You sound surprised…”

“I’m not…” he immediately regains the fierceness in his voice. “This isn’t about you, stop making it a  _not all men_ thing!”

“Relax, Enjolras,” Grantaire sighs, “does she sound freaked out to you? She says she’s had a nice evening…”

“Because she’s  _polite_ !” Enjolras dramatically throws his coat around his shoulders, preparing to leave.

“Listen,” Grantaire holds up a hand and gestures with his head at the record player. “She’s searching for an excuse to stay! She asks for another drink.”

“Yes, because he  _presses_ her!”

“It’s a  _game,_ Enj!”

“Yeah,” Enjolras snorts snarkily, “the game of  _the mouse and the wolf_ !”

“Ugh,” Grantaire throws his pounding head back on the armchair, crossing his ankles on the coffee table and wiggling his reindeer-socked toes. “That’s truly disgusting, but not all versions had the same tone and meaning. If you  _listened closely_ you’d see that she’s afraid of the neighbors judging her, she’s into his spell, she’s in  _love_ with him!”

“If you  _listened closely_ ,” Enjolras jumps up with horror at the sound of the shocking lyric, “he put something  _in her fucking drink_ !”

“Woah, woah, take it easy Apollo,” Grantaire stands up, his voice trying to soothe the other man as he walks towards him, holding up his hands in defense rather than in an attempt to touch him. “It was an  _expression,_ a phrase they used to show how someone’s feeling out of his depth or, you know, excited about something. By the way,” he grins teasingly, leaning dangerously close, “your hair looks  _swell_ .”

“Grantaire, you stink of alcohol, you’re drunk,” Enjolras mutters with disgust, pushing him away.

“Yes but you aren’t, therefore your yes counts as consent.”

“I never said yes, did I?” Enjolras grabs Grantaire by the collar of his ugly offensive Christmas sweater and pulls him close, and if that’s not contradicting his words, then Grantaire doesn’t know what does, but in all honesty he can’t think properly right now because Enjolras smells of peppermint and wool and Grantaire wants to make a series of incorrigible reindeer sounds. “See?” he says breathlessly, “she even touches his hair.”

Enjolras’ own fingers are in Grantaire’s wild curls, holding his head to a dangerous distance from his face, and it’s a thrill because really, when has breathing been necessary? “The fact that she might indeed want him,” Enjolras hisses, and his breath brushes warm against Grantaire’s cheeks, “doesn’t make him less creepy. No means no, and people need to grasp a concept simple  _as that_ . Implied, non-enthusiastic consent, is no consent.”

_No. I’m saying no. I’m_ implying  _my absence of consent. Don’t touch me, I really don’t want you to touch me._

_Oh sweet, merciless hell, never stop touching me._

Enjolras pulls back, looking somewhat embarrassed by his behavior. “It has been interesting talking to you, but I need to go.”

“Stay,” Grantaire croaks, feeling his insides sinking lower and lower. “Really. It’s fucking cold and the buses pass every fuck o’clock. Joly will gut me if you catch pneumonia and die.”

Enjolras hesitates for a while. The song has already changed, now playing another Christmas carol in some tacky 50s recording. “I can’t.”

Grantaire sighs in defeat, resting against the wall and trying to avoid eye contact with the creepy punk Santa Claus Jehan brought in their living room, while he pours another drink.

“I just don’t know how you want to call yourself a feminist and like that song,” Enjolras hesitates at the door, sounding deceived, almost disappointed.

“I’m not saying that the song doesn’t have issues,” Grantaire states, matter of factly, “I’m just saying we should read things in their historical and social context.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Enjolras raises his glowing eyes at him, before making a few decided steps towards him. Grantaire gulps. “Why do you keep trying to find excuses?”

“Because I grew up with Ella Fitzgerald’s version, my mum used to sing it to me.” He shrugs his shoulders, taking a sip from his drink. “Also it’s the only part of Glee that’s worth it.”

“If it’s consented,” Enjolras mutters innocently as he moves closer. Grantaire shuts his eyes, his breath hitching on his throat as the familiar scent brushes against his nostrils, “supposedly, in a modern context, if it’s a two sided game between people who’ve agreed to it…”

“Then it’s seduction, Apollo,” Grantaire sighs hoarsely, refusing to open his eyes as his heart starts hammering in his chest. “A plain, pure game of consented seduction. Should that go to hell too?”

“Not really, no,” he feels Enjolras answering somewhat breathlessly, “it should stay where it is.”

“You’re some piece of work, Apollo,” Grantaire can only croak.

“Sometimes I really like you, R,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire thinks he’s gonna faint. His knees feel all wobbly, his heart is about to explode and his head is spinning round and  _fuck all those stupid shiny lights he shouldn’t have drunk so much_ – “sometimes I really,  _really_ like you…”

“Uh huh?” Grantaire squeaks rather pathetically, but then Enjolras’ fingers are soft around his wrists and he dies almost eleven times.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras murmurs softly, “do I have the consent to kiss you?”

The room flashes ridiculously in Grantaire’s bleary eyes, all candles and crackling fire and stupid light, and he feels himself melting around what’s left of a pounding, crazy heart. “Hell  _yes_ ,” he exhales and, next thing he knows, Enjolras’ lips taste sweet upon his own, taking him slowly like eggnog, or like scratched old vinyl as it grinds against the record player, or Grantaire is simply drunk  _in Enjolras and Christmas lights_ .

And then Enjolras pulls away, and wraps his coat tightly around him, because he really can’t stay  _the smooth bastard_ , and Grantaire stands frozen in the middle of the living room, waiting for starlight to melt from his eyes.


End file.
